


Blood in the River

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Drug-Induced Sex, Gunplay, M/M, Sex Pollen, Very Dubious Consent, and prompto is mostly confused, in which ardyn is a masochist, lots of mud, oh and mud, vesperpool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: In which waiting for Steyliff Grove's gates to open takes an unexpected turn. Ardyn knows a lot more about botany than Prompto does, but ultimately it doesn't really help either of them.A fill for an nsfw meme





	Blood in the River

**Author's Note:**

> I got two separate requests to fill #20 on the nsfw meme: Sex pollen / heat
> 
> I hope both you anons like what I did with it >:)
> 
> Also listen to the titular song by Zeal & Ardour, it's bloody fantastic.

_A good god is a dead one_

_A good love is a dark one_

_The riverbed will run red with the blood of the saints and the blood of the holy_

* * *

 

 

Close to the water’s edge, it becomes a lot easier to breathe. Prompto stays gazing at the murky water, wondering how large the catfish grow to, wondering if Noctis would be able to catch a big one for dinner. They don’t mind that he’s gone off for a breather. That last battle in the thicket had really taken it out of him.

        He’s overcome with the urge to stick his hands deep into the mud, to feel the refreshing slickness cover his skin. He’s heating up. Doesn’t know why. A knot of unresolved tension twists in his belly, spreads to below the belt and he’s glad he’s not around the others right now. Allergic reaction, maybe? There’s a million different species of plant in this thickly-forested basin - perhaps he’s just touched something he doesn’t agree with.

        A sound behind him, startling him out of reverie. His mind’s all a fog and he brings up his gun sharply, aiming in the direction of the noise. At first, just a tall shadow beside him. Then he focusses. Wide-shouldered frame, messy red hair, stupidly-layered clothes too inappropriate for such a muggy locale. Yes. It’s only their new friend of dubious intention; Ardyn Izunia, Imperial Chancellor. The apprehension doesn’t entirely fade, because there’s something about this man Prompto doesn’t trust nor understand, but he’s mostly just relieved it’s not another sahagin come to attack him. Besides, Ardyn’s here to help. For some reason.

        Ardyn’s at the water’s edge too, but he’s looking just as distracted as Prompto feels. When he hears the click of the gun’s safety he turns, eyes misty and distant, and Prompto notices his cheeks are oddly flushed.

        ‘You should do it. You should shoot.’

        ‘Are you crazy?’

        Ardyn smiles, eyes all aglow now.

        ‘Far from it.’ Then he repeats himself. ‘You should do it.’ While Prompto stares in light-headed confusion, Ardyn bends down to scoop water up from the murky pool and splash his face. He breathes out, studies his hands, his clothes, then picks off small burrs covering his overcoat. ‘Oh, this stuff never gets old, does it?’

        ‘What do you mean?’

        ‘Tribulus terrestris. Tackweed, as you might call it in the common tongue. I’m supposing it’s affected you, too?’ Ardyn’s having difficulty retaining his smooth pattern of speech - his words are coming out all stilted and it makes Prompto snort. Then he looks down at his own clothes, and notices the spread of small burrs caught in the fibres. He picks some off, feels them crumble beneath his fingers, sending small puffs of dust into the air. He sneezes, and the heat in his body increases.

        ‘Uh… what does it do?’

        ‘It’s something of an aphrodisiac.’

        ‘Hah. No way!’ Prompto laughs it off, but something’s scratching inside him, itching to get out.

        ‘I always did like this place, you know. We stand near hallowed ground.’

        Prompto says nothing. It feels like Ardyn’s waiting for something. The rain’s light on his face, barely a drizzle. The air’s thick and muggy, and it’s like a duvet coating his arms. Slowly, he lowers the gun, arms falling slack at his sides. There’s so much tension there, held in his muscles. Something like adrenaline keeping him on edge. He fidgets with his fingers, thinks about how much he wants to purge that feeling.

        Ardyn chooses this moment to close the distance between them, and Prompto’s overcome with the urge to step closer, which is confusing. Ardyn whispers something about checking the burrs on his clothes, checking it’s the right plant, as he threads his arms round Prompto’s waist and it feels both awful and exciting at the same time. He grits his teeth while he leans into the warmth, and Ardyn takes this as incentive to keep going. It’s only when Ardyn grabs firm over his crotch that he realises how hard he is. A small, unwilling moan escapes his throat.

        There’s something shivering up from deep in his belly, a feeling strong like shame, and terrifying like he’s had one drink too many. He’s had these moments before, out on the town in Insomnia, getting too friendly with strangers because he just can’t help himself, then realising something is amiss when he starts getting the wrong kind of attention. Then comes the precipitous feeling that he’s got to rush home and out of the firing line.

        He knows he beckons people in too much. He only wants to be nice.

 _That’s a lie,_ he thinks, almost immediately. He wants more than that. He wants and wants, and also desperately doesn’t, because he knows he’s not in his right state of mind and he feels sick. He wants the release and yet he wants Ardyn to stop, because he trusts Ardyn about as much as he’d trust a creep at the bar during a pub crawl. But right now he doesn’t care enough to enact upon the uneasiness. Whatever’s in his system is in Ardyn’s too.

        Dark drumbeats in his head. He reaches out.

        ‘Okay,’ he says, and that’s the moment everything changes.

        Suddenly Ardyn’s all over him, layers of fabric heavy with drizzle, smothering his limbs, making all movement achingly slow and dreamlike. Ardyn pushes him down into the shallow swamp water, until he’s sat in the thick mud, practically on his back and the shock of the cool water is refreshing; it’s too much and yet not enough to stop the ache. Ardyn’s dropped all pretence now, his feral voice and his hard grip is enough to send deep shards of fear through Prompto’s body. It feels like he could snap him in half if he loses focus for just a moment.

        ‘Hurt me,’ Ardyn growls. ‘Shoot me - don’t be afraid to just fucking shoot me! Like I deserve it!’

        He grips Prompto’s hands round his gun, draws it up to his temple, and makes him press the trigger. There’s a frenzied look in his eyes and Prompto has no time to protest - the bullet bursts forth and blows out the side of Ardyn’s skull with terrifying force. Point-blank, there’s no way he could survive it. The heavy mist is enough to dampen the noise, and the shell falls into the water with a soft plunk.

        Blood black like tar decorates Prompto’s hands, his face, and the full weight of the man slumps down upon him, nearly drowning him in the shallow water and he splutters, tries to shift the weight, starts to panic while the heat continues to spread through his body.

        He’s sure he’s dreaming.

        When the body atop him starts to shift, he figures it has to be a dream. He drops the gun in the mud, stares wide-eyed as Ardyn resurfaces from death, head like a hole filling up with soil until it’s completely healed. Then Ardyn reasserts his position, crawls atop him, digs him deeper into the muck, fingers raking through the dark water and kicking up a swirl of benthic material and pondweed. It’s so wet and still it’s not enough to put out the fire under his skin. Not enough to quell the fire in Ardyn’s body either, because he runs his hands over Prompto’s face, tugs at the neckline of his soaked vest.

        ‘Do it again. Hurt me again.’

        And he envelops him in a crushing kiss, anchors his body into the muck, not stopping in his worship, giving Prompto only the scantest opportunity to gasp for breath. Then his hands dive down and he’s tugging Prompto’s belt away, opening his jeans, tearing at stitching to get to his prize.

        Prompto’s cock twitches painfully at the attention it’s getting, and when Ardyn growls at him again to shoot, to make him _just godsdamned feel something,_ he fumbles for the gun in the shallow pool, brings it up fervently, pulls the trigger once more. Gives Ardyn what he wants.

 


End file.
